Homeward Bound
by CowgirlImladris
Summary: Alternate timeline in the last books, will spill over into post-series speculation. Snape rescues Harry and his friends from the clutches of Voldemort, but the two have much to discuss. Snape/Harry
1. In Media Res

**As always, I don't own the characters or story within Rowling's series. This is one of my favorite pairings, and one of my favorite works. Hope you guys enjoy ;)**

**In Media Res**

"Mfff…"

That was the extent of Harry Potter's speech for the time being. The world was fuzzy, blurred at the edges like a hastily finished watercolor painting. This was not due to Mr. Potter's lack of spectacles, and implied that his current visual condition was influenced by more malevolent forces than forgetfulness. Sounds of war and muffled cries pierced his ears from all around, the clamor of battle infiltrating his senses, a painful and unwelcome guest. His head was pounding, and he vaguely recalled the sensation from the time he and Ron had stolen a bottle of firewhiskey out of the cupboard and, naïve of its effects, drank the bottle in one night and awoke to an unforgiving and unpleasant morning.

He was consumed by a thrumming and vicious pain, particularly on a spot just below his ribcage, but he managed to groan:

"Hello? Anyone?"

He received an immediate response:

"Quiet, Potter."

The tone was smooth; as if it were tangible, the fabric of the voice would have been velvet. It had a slow, grating effect, slightly nasal but more as though the speaker was trying awfully hard not to his the recipient of his comments. That voice could only belong to one person.

_Oh, _fuck_, it's Snape_.

Hatred seethed and boiled, consuming Harry's senses, pushing away the pain and ensnaring his senses with an overriding desire to strangle the man in closest proximity to him.

And he would have, were he capable of movement.

"You—" Harry began hotly.

"I said shut up, Potter!"

The voice was laced with quiet desperation. Harry's glasses dug into his face as he struggled to sit up from his prostrate position on the dirt ground. The metallic tang of blood coated his tongue.

"Fuck you, you lying, betraying piece of—"

An open palm smote the back of Harry's head, and he knew no more, obscene words of protest still on his lips as he slipped into a void.


	2. Not Alone

**Not Alone**

Sounds of running water reached his ears before anything else. Soft grass touched his skin, uncomfortable and soothingly familiar at the same time. Sirius had taught him that, when in an unfamiliar place, absorb all you can before opening you eyes.

_Might save your life, Harry_.

Harry's stomach lurched at the memory of his godfather, a subdued intensity that was as real as Dumbledore's death, as close as Fred's demise. Dumbledore…Fred…Hogwarts…_the battle_!

What about the battle?

His eyes snapped open.

He was sitting in a shaded alcove, near a small creek, dappled and cool with dawning night. Was it the Forbidden Forest? His eyes searched the unfamiliar surroundings. No…no, it wasn't. The trees were far too young, far too narrow. The absence of dangerous creatures was as much a confirmant of the unknown as a comfort. Harry struggled to place his sense of time.

He, Ron, and Hermione had gone under the protection of James' Invisibility Cloak, venturing to the Shrieking Shack after Voldemort had rattled the foundations of Hogwartian resolve with his dire threat. Ron and Hermione vowed to stick with him to the bloody end. They had just entered the threshold of the abandoned house when there was a shout. Several, actually: Ron's unhindered gasp of surprise and dismay as the Cloak was unceremoniously ripped off by a rusty, twisted, overhanging nail; Hermione's shrill cry of protest and desperation; and Voldemort's cold shout of glee and malice as his scarlet, snakelike eyes met those of his unexpected guests. Harry's last glimpses of the scene were the coiling snake Nagini in her eerie, suspended cage, Voldemort's shapeless, waxy features consumed with elation, and one other man, standing slightly off to the side, half of his face obscured by a curtain of black hair. The Dark Lord pointed his wand at Ron.

"No!" shouted Harry, flinging himself in his friend's path, his being uniting into one dominant thought of protecting his friends, his family, Hogwarts, as he watched Voldemort's lips form the words: _Avada Kedavra_. There was a flash of green light, a blinding pain, and then nothing.

He awoke in a King's Cross station where he was met by Dumbledore, both hands whole and untarnished. The old wizard explained the Horcruxes and the Hallows, their connection to his past, his friendship with Grindelwald, both Voldemort's soul and Harry's, and why Harry was not, truly, dead. He had given his life for another, had stepped in front of the line of fire with the intention to protect Ron, Hermione, and his home. But most of all, Dumbledore had begged Harry for forgiveness: forgiveness from himself. Harry could not find it in his heart to stay angry with his Headmaster, not after what Dumbledore had confessed to him and, most probably, no one else save his brother, who was only privy to the knowledge because he had been present when the events in question had occurred. Dumbledore left Harry with a customarily heartwarming and enigmatic statement, and Harry knew he would love the old wizard now and forever. His guidance was the only thing that had led Harry to where he was now, and he would never forget it.

Speaking of which…where, exactly, was he?

"Awake yet, Potter?"

Severus Snape's cruel, deep drawl cut through Harry's thoughts with a pointed sizzle, like raw meat hitting the flame of an open grill. Harry stood quickly, his insides protesting against the sudden movement with a flash of dizzying pain and nausea as he snatched his wand from his robes…only to find that that slim, familiar piece of wood was absent, as was the sensation of the cool holly pressing against his chest. Snape's lips quirked with the beginnings of a sneer, accenting his black goatee, as he extracted Harry's wand from within the depths of his midnight robes. He twirled it tauntingly in his hand, his eyes never leaving Harry's. Harry clenched his fists, clenched, then unclenched his teeth, and managed to say:

"Give me my _fucking _wand." He swayed slightly, and grabbed a tree branch for support.

"Such _language_, Mister Potter," replied Snape, his tongue maliciously lengthening the's' and fairly spitting out Harry's surname.

"Why waste polite formalities on a piece of shit like yourself?" asked Harry, with a boldness that surprised him.

"Don't make me curse you with your own wand," growled Snape sharply, gripping the phoenix-feather wand between his long fingers, raising it pointedly.

"Where are the rest of your Death Eater friends, huh? Where the _hell am I_?"

"Keep demanding answers and you'll receive none. And in this manner as well; what would your dear father say?" Snape tsked in the back of his throat, a grin of malice spreading across his face as he watched Harry's fists tighten, nails inscribing half-moon kisses on his palms.

"Where. Am. I?" repeated Harry, each word bitten tightly off at the end.

"I'd really rather not give you such information right now," said Snape unconcernedly.

Harry took several deep breaths, then launched himself at Snape.

A burning mix of hate and anger, packaged in the lithe form of Harry Potter, knocked Snape off of his feet and onto the grass. Harry grabbed hold of the hand that was clutching his wand. Snape jerked away, whacking Harry in the face and sending his glasses tumbling onto the ground. Harry grabbed the offending arm and put it in his mouth, biting down with all the force he could muster. Snape let out a howl of rage and pain, dropping the boy's wand. It rolled silently onto the grass.

He tried to grab onto the boy's clothes but ended up with air. Moving away from his adversary, Harry scrambled upward, snatched his wand and glasses from the grass, slammed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and leveled his wand at the prostrate Snape. The former Potion's master had nearly risen before he found the full weight of the Boy Who Lived pressing painfully into his forearms. Harry's knees pinned Snape's arms to the ground, the remainder of his body resting on Snape's lower torso, immobilizing him. The phoenix-feather wand pressed against Snape's throat, making breathing an agonizing chore.

Harry's hand was shaking.

"Tell me. Tell me why I shouldn't end your miserable life right here and now. After all the pain and despair you've caused me. After everything you've done to me and my family – my father, my mother, Hermione, the Weaselys, the Gryffindors, Hogwarts, _everything_, everything I've ever loved – TELL ME WHY, SNAPE!"

His anguished voice peaked to a cry of hurt and fury and sorrow, a single tear breaking free of his flashing green eyes and slipping unheeded onto his cheek.

The moment froze, a moonlit tableau, shaking shadows cast on the grass, waiting, expectantly fearful, for an answer.

"You would really kill me, Potter?" said Snape, his voice, for once, devoid of menace, as though he had already resigned himself to his fate. Harry bit his lip in a way, Snape thought absently, that was entirely too agreeable to be allowed. There were a few more moments of baited breath before Harry slid fluidly off of Snape's torso, standing and then turning his back to the other man.

"No. I won't. I won't grant myself the power that you Death Eaters take so sickeningly lightly: that's your job, you bastard," said Harry, his words but a little louder than a whisper.

"How noble of you, Potter," said Snape, rising in one swift movement and brushing stray strands of grass from his robes.

Harry whipped around. "I just—"

"As if I would have let you _kill_ me," said Snape, tone dripping with disdain.

_I might have let him, actually_: _what poetic justice,_ thought Snape in retrospect, as he watched Harry kick the grass in frustration and run Seeker-slim fingers through silken black hair.

_No one deserves it more than I_.

Silence formed, heavy in the air around Snape's thoughts, the sounds of the forest a paradoxical soundtrack clashing headlong with the gravity of the moment.

"Why am I here, Professor?" asked Harry quietly, as he stared at the ground.


	3. Heatbeats

**Heartbeats**

Snape blinked, thrown by the use of his previous title. A gentle breeze whispered the sky's secrets through the dense growth of the forest. Snape touched his wand to the roots of his for-once clean and dry hair, extracting a seemingly unending gossamer strand of light silver memory. A large goblet of clear water appeared in his other hand, and with effortless grace Snape placed the memories inside the goblet and held them out.

"_This_ is why you are here, Potter."

Harry looked up.

"A glass of—"

He broke off after seeing the misty haze, not quite gas and note quite liquid, rise from the surface of the goblet.

"Take it," said Snape simply.

His eyes never leaving Snape's, Harry reached out his hand, fingers brushing against those of his former Potion's master for the briefest of moments before he held the cup completely in his hand. Harry stared deeply at the surface of the goblet, a mystery in memory floating beneath the surface of a crystal pool. He looked up, piercing Snape with his soft green gaze.

"Why are you giving me this?"

To explain.

To confess.

To apologize.

To believe.

To indebt you to me.

To beg for forgiveness.

To make amends.

Any number of these explanations and more settled on the surface of Snape's tongue, but he did not lie.

"I don't know, Harry."

Harry's stomach lurched at the sound of that voice saying his name. It was the first time Snape had ever called him by it in his presence, and it both unnerved him and angered him that the sensation in his abdomen was close to pleasurable.

"Say that again," said Harry.

Snape blinked. "Say what?"

"My name."

Snape stared until the all-consuming black flames of his eyes softened beyond recognition.

"Harry," he said quietly.

The boy trembled inwardly at the way that word on those lips could make his stomach clench, and not unpleasantly so. They stared at one another, the air heavy with questions and outdated, unspoken words. Finally, Harry turned away, clutching the treasure trove of memory and the makeshift Pensieve in his left hand, his wand in his right. Snape watched him go, still wondering why he had given the boy his piece of the past. At once, the voice of Albus Dumbledore rang in his head:

_Because it was the right thing to do_.


	4. Reverb

**Reverb**

An hour or so later, Harry emerged from the clean, untarnished world of recollection into the emotionally confusing world of the present. Cool evening air brushed his face as he leaned his back against the reassuring firmness of a young poplar tree. So many things had been answered, so many puzzle pieces aligned. He had never really completely understood Dumbledore's tears at King's Cross: he knew now. He knew that there had to have been a bigger plan.

_You are your own person now_, he had told Harry; that part of Voldemort's soul which had latched onto him no longer existed. Strangely enough, however, he could still speak Parselmouth. A Gartner snake had poked its innocuous head above the grass when he had tried, and Harry dismissed it with a sigh and a: "_Leave_." The snake flicked the tip of its tail and slithered off, looking highly affronted. Dumbledore Harry knew. Dumbledore he had made amends with or, rather, the other way round. But Snape…

Snape.

Hero and tormentor battled incessantly inside his head. Scenes of a jeering Snape collided, somersaulting, with the acts of kindness, heroism, and selflessness presented undoubtedly to him in Snape's memories. He didn't know how to react: surprise, shock, embarrassment and, above all…unconditional gratitude. It was so difficult to process that after all these years it was Snape, basically, who had saved him, had protected him. He picked at the grass beneath his feet, twisting it uncertainly between his fingers.

If Snape were dead, Harry thought anxiously, and perhaps a bit morbidly, Harry could fulfill the romantic and righteous picture of understanding and regret, telling the rest of the world what Severus Snape had really done for him, making sure that he was awarded his posthumous Order of Merlin, First Class, doing all the obligatory and sentimental things required of him, but…

Snape was alive. And he knew what Harry knew. He owed Snape his life, that and more, but it was also Snape who had had a giant hand in the death of his parents and nearly himself. Could he forgive Snape so easily, after all of this?

The answer was yes, but Harry wasn't ready to admit that yet. Before he could speak to Snape, he had something to show him. He placed his wand to the crown of his head…


	5. A Plea

**A Plea**

It didn't take long to find him. Snape, too, had his back against a tree, staring into the distance with a wistful expression on his face, twirling a stalk of grass between the rough tips of his long fingers. Harry swallowed, gripped with a sudden urge to kiss the man sitting on the ground before him.

_What the _fuck_, Harry!_ he screamed at himself. He pushed the desire firmly out of his mind and knelt down in the grass. Snape tilted his head ever so slightly, his eyes focusing on the nervous young man not a yard from him. The boy placed the goblet and a small corked bottle filled with silver at the midpoint in the short distance between them.

"All of your memories are in that bottle. And before I say anything I—I want you to have a look at…at these. I'll be on the other side of the tree when you finish."

He dared not look the other man in the eye. He stood and strode to the other side of the tree, Snape calmly studying him until the young man disappeared from his peripheral vision. With a furrowed brow, Snape delved into the memories of the Boy Who Lived.

…

Snape floated, a simple observer, sandwiched between years' worth of Harry's memories: his ugly beginnings and general misery and anguish at the hands of the Durselys; a montage of verbal abuse by classmates; ever-present, gut-wrenching indecision, and the endurance of the jeers and spit-upons of the Wizarding world. The laughing faces of the Slytherins, particularly Draco Malfoy (Snape flinched) were a predominant theme. Because of the poignancy of the memories, Snape felt how Harry felt, humiliated and hurt, always the odd one out, with all but two people to really count on. But the memories did not have to force these sensations on him; he knew from experience what they felt like.

All of his trials, beginning with the Sorcerer's Stone, were laid out play by play for Snape to analyze. Harry had offered his life up for judgment: the fight with the Basilisk, rescuing Sirius, the Triwizard Tournament, and the return of Voldemort – everything. All the harrowing experiences, every kind hand Harry ever reached out (which was quite often) was there for Snape to see. He could feel Harry's regret, shame, and genuine humility and sympathy after one certain Occlumency lesson in his fifth year. He could feel his own rage burn like a fire between them that night.

Harry's life was basically in his hands; everything from the green flash of light that set the boy's destiny in motion to Dumbledore's funeral.

Snape emerged from the memories of Harry Potter.


	6. Entaglement

**Entaglement**

A film was lifted from his eyes as Snape fell back into reality. He did not know how long he'd been. He paused, and heard slow, rhythmic breathing behind him. So the boy hadn't lied, hadn't run: he had waited.

"And what was this supposed to prove, Potter?" asked Snape. His voice held an edge, curiosity, sardonic amusement, and dislike intermingling.

There was a silence as Harry struggled with the words to make Snape understand.

"Was this supposed to arouse sympathy? Show off the little hero you really are? Is that it, Potter?"

Harry shook his head, not angry but desperately wanting Snape to comprehend what the memories really meant.

"I may look like him, Professor, but I…I wanted to show you that I'm not like my father."

It was a plea.

Snape was utterly thrown, both by the boy's words and by his new image of him. Though Snape knew to a slight extent that his previous picture of Potter had been biased, he had always thought that it was at least ninety-percent accurate. This was not the case. His old view of the Boy Who Lived had been completely shattered, rebuilt with other, more admirable traits: courage and bravery. Kindness and compassion. Skill, certainly, something that he always thought Potter had lacked.

_Besides, he doesn't look all that much like his father anyway. A gentler curve to the nose; bigger, brighter eyes; a softness about the mouth_…Snape blinked. What was he thinking?

"I…I want to be—worthy, of…what you've done for me," said Harry haltingly. He had never been so honest, and the truth had never been more humbling to tell.

Snape was so taken aback that he let out a short, clipped, bark of laughter. Harry winced at the sound: it was harsh and sorrowful, deep with self-loathing.

"Worthy? You are _more_ than worthy of what I've done," Snape said with a heavy bitterness not directed at Harry, but at himself.

Snape's fingers fisted in the dark material of his cloak. The boy was trying to—was _begging_—with _him!_ It was impossible, after everything Snape had done to _him_ that he—_Harry_—was asking _him_ for forgiveness!

It was unbearable.

Insects sang beneath the supple earth, their chorus unbroken for quite some time. Harry was about to open his mouth, to say something, anything, to make Snape actually realize his significance, to keep Snape here with him, when the other man spoke.

"You are a hero, Potter," said Snape. "I can never be."

He let the grass slip between his fingers, watched it as it drifted slowly onto the ground. And just like that, the walls were back up. After a moment, Snape got up from the ground and turned to go. Harry stood quickly, almost tripping on a tree root peeking from beneath the dirt in his haste to stand. No way was he going to let the other man go without something more than those two short sentences. No way was he just going to let Snape leave without knowing that Snape knew what he truly meant. Not after all this. The dark figure was disappearing swiftly into the trees.

"Snape!" called Harry.

He did not look back. Harry broke out into a run, pushing sharp, beckoning branches urgently out of his way, unaware and uncaring of the red lines they opened on his skin. Midnight-swathed shoulders vanished behind a bend, and Harry put on an extra burst of speed to catch them.

"Snape," Harry breathed, grabbing the shoulder and turning the other man to face him.

With a greater speed than Harry could have anticipated, Snape spun around and snatched the boy's reaching arm out of the air and pulled. Harry stumbled forward, his arm held above Snape's left shoulder, gripped there by strong fingers. Harry looked directly into Snape's eyes and could discern nothing from those unfathomable black pools, waters he threatened to lose himself in.

"You're a hero to me," said Harry quietly, firmly, cautiously, meaningfully…all of these things in an attempt to make Snape understand that_ he_ was the brave one, and that everything he had done for Harry meant so much to him, far beyond what any words could possibly encompass.

Snape involuntarily lowered Harry's hand but did not let go of it. Harry did not mind, but was hyperaware of every whorl and callus of Snape's skin as it brushed against his own.

Snape looked away, his teeth clenched and a passionate grief contorting his features. He stared painfully into the distance, as though Harry's words were like a knife to the gut. Harry waited, and watched as the distorted features smoothed themselves to a look of contemplation, lines of worry disappearing until the man in front of him looked quite unlike the Snape he knew.

There were several more moments of silence before Snape spoke.

"No one…has ever called me anything like that before. I've…never felt as though I could ever deserve it. I still feel as though I don't. But _you_—"

Snape purposefully left his sentence unfinished. His words were anything but accusatory, and the tone that voiced them was soft and meaningful, perhaps a bit hoarse from disuse. Harry's heart was beating erratically.

It had begun to rain.

Snape had been gazing fixedly into the distance, but now he turned back to those green eyes that were all defiance, and truth, and bravery and innocence. He watched the newborn raindrops caress and drip gently off Harry's long black lashes and onto the boy's skin, running in rivulets along his cheek only to walk the length of his soft jaw line and fall like a diamond to the earth. He placed his hand along that supple cheek, felt Harry shiver beneath him, but whether from disgust or pleasure he could not tell. He leaned in so he and the boy's face were only inches apart.

"_You_, Harry Potter." And that was all he said.

_Please kiss me_, thought Harry inanely, desperately. He didn't know where this was coming from but he wanted it out of his system, while at the same time wanting it to stay. It drove him mad.

Snape must have used Occlumency at that moment, because the shell he had hidden himself in for so long and that had become a part of him cracked, and the smile that had been gone for so long reappeared in one blinding moment of brilliance, and he was beautiful. He leaned to catch raindrops between their lips.


	7. Change

**Change**

Harry's breath caught in the back of his throat as skin touched skin, and sparked a desire that ran the length of his body until it ignited like a flame in the pit of his stomach. Snape's—_Snape's!_—lips pressed against his and he felt one amazing moment of guiltless pleasure at the contact, a pure and heady thrumming in his veins that he was convinced was controlling him because it couldn't be _his_ hands that were gripping Snape's robes so tightly, certainly not of their own volition, anyway. And it couldn't be his head that leaned achingly into the dark press of the Potion's Professor's lips. And it couldn't be his mouth and breath that mixed with Snape's own as the kiss deepened into something more feverish, fueled now by the need to feel more flesh against flesh, to overpower one another with the warm heat of bodies.

"Ah—!" breathed Harry as Snape pulled back to watch the effect he was having on the young man.

Harry took one deep, shuddering breath, his face flushed with desire.

"_Fuck_," he whispered, and he said it so eloquently that Snape had to kiss him again. Equal parts exhilaration and fear bloomed inside Harry as their lips met. It was incredible: a dark, passionate sunrise in the land of the forbidden. Snape's hands moved downward, rough against the skin of Harry's neck, a soothing but electrifying presence on his body. They searched further down to the fabric of Harry's shirt, lifted it and pressed against the hot, compact skin of his abdomen.

_Ah...oh…oh, God. _

Harry didn't realize until later that he had moaned it aloud. The fingers slid up to his chest, found the smooth, upraised skin of his nipple. Brushed against it, tweaked it gently. Harry's body leaned into the touch, and at the same time shied from it. He had no time to catch his breath before Snape's lips dragged along his neck to the hollow of his shoulder, kissed it and bit it ever so softly, licking the bite with his tongue though it had left no mark on the young man's skin.

The panic in Harry's head battled with the intense yearning of his body. Those wonderful lips left the threshold of his skin and those eyes, oh those _eyes_, drank Harry in. Snape leaned in until his mouth hovered beside Harry's ear:

"May I take this off?" His voice was low, and heavy with breath that rushed against Harry's neck, raising goose bumps on his flesh that spread like wildfire down his spine. Snape's hands fisted gently in the fabric of Harry's shirt, making it all too clear what he wanted removed. Harry was beyond reason and coherent thought, or so he told himself.

"Only if I get to do the same," breathed Harry, the impulse slipping from his lips between soft gulps of rain-soaked air, so thrown was he by the intensity of his wanting. Harry heard a quiet chuckle in his ear, and his heart and stomach lurched simultaneously, a powerful combination. The face of Severus Snape came back into view, and those dark features wore a sexy, sardonic smile. He leaned in so close that his hand Harry's lips were mere millimeters apart.

"As you wish."

Harry kissed him without a second thought.

Warm, damp cotton brushed against Harry's skin as Snape's nimble hands unclothed him. Moonlight hit his heaving chest, reflecting off the smooth skin, marred only by a scarred stretch of flesh right below his ribcage, Voldemort's wound that Snape had healed himself after Apparating Harry and his friends far out of Voldemort's reach. Snape stepped back to look at him under the glow of the raining night.

"Oh, Harry…"

Harry shivered and tried to compose himself as the warm, wet droplets touched his body, running under and in between the crests of muscle on his stomach.

"_Shit_…" said Harry, and it was a representation of his fear, his fear of what was to come and his fear of the overpowering desire now coursing inside of him, that drove him to _want_ what was to come.

A wayward shock of black hair dropped and obscured the bright green eyes as Harry's head turned. Snape saw a flash of white teeth grab the soft skin of a lower lip, and suddenly he wondered if he had gone too far. He swallowed.

But this…this was the first time anyone had ever made him feel this _alive_ in a long, long time. The first time anyone had _wanted_ him. The first time anyone had taken the effort to tell him the truth. The first time Snape had felt this way. And the boy was, _ah_—the boy was beautiful. In every way.

And Snape wanted that perfection.

He placed a hand on Harry's cheek, threaded his fingers through the young man's soft black hair. He vowed to be gentle. He kissed the soft skin below Harry's jaw line, then his lips. Harry was ever so hesitant this time, and Snape let him be. He pulled back when he felt the boy's lips tremble.

"Are you all right?" asked Snape, genuinely concerned. It was a strange feeling for him.

"I just—I want you so fucking _badly_," replied Harry, his voice cracking. He needed Snape's touch, and there was a physical pain coupled with an inexplicable urgency whenever the Potions master's skin left his own. Snape's stomach lurched like he had missed a step going down the stairs.

His heart melted. "Harry—"

Before he could say anything more, Harry launched himself at Snape, pinning him to a tree and pressing his mouth hard against the other man's. Snape felt the boy's tongue inside his mouth and he shuddered with delight, responding in kind. Harry worked with frantic fingers at the clasp on Snape's cloak as they kissed, yearning to feel more of Snape's body, to touch his skin, to feel the beat of his chest…

The water-stained midnight garment fell to the ground, exposing a loose, white linen short-sleeve shirt which opened in a V at the neck, as well as a pair of plain black pants. Harry grabbed the bottom of the shirt and pulled up, sliding the shirt off of Snape's body and throwing it to the ground. He pushed himself against the other man's bare skin and resumed kissing him. Snape could feel the quivering rush of Harry's body bearing against him, the fast necessity of his touch, and he pulled away. He took the young man's face firmly between his palms.

"Harry—look at me," he said gently.

Harry looked up, biting his lip.

"Slow down."

Harry blushed in such a way that the other man almost came inside his pants.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

Snape kissed the boy's cheek, slowly stroked the skin along his arms, making the hairs on the back of Harry's biceps stand up, collecting moisture from Harry's skin in his palms as he went.

"It's all right," he said quietly into Harry's ear.

He kissed leisurely down the young man's neck to the center of his chest. He licked Harry's nipple, felt the boy groan as he sucked with increasing force. He pressed his long fingers against Harry's crotch and felt a stiff hardness growing as Harry panted and moaned for him to never stop.

The buttons on Harry's jeans were undone, the zipper pulled down and then, finally, the pants and underwear completely removed. Snape felt the hotness of the boy's manhood beneath his fingertips, stroked it as Harry clung to him and moved his hips in tandem with Snape's caress. His hand moved up and down Harry's shaft, and it was all the young man could do to compose himself for the briefest of moments and begin unbuttoning Snape's pants until they both stood unclothed, breathing in the scent of one another as the warm rain continued to fall.

Snape held Harry in his arms as he lowered himself onto the ground, until Harry was breathing heavily on top of him as Snape sat against a tree, pulling the boy close to him and devouring the sweetness of his mouth. The rain-slicked grass glided along their bare skin as they sat kissing, Harry's hands on the ground beneath Snape's shoulders, his body resting on Snape's stomach as the other man's hands brushed a delicate trail along his spine, pressing pleasurably against his ribcage. Those hands found their way into the smooth crack of Harry's ass, and the boy opened his eyes with surprise and pulled back. He closed his eyes, bit his lip.

"Ngh…"  
It felt so good. Too good.

Snape pulled the boy close, and Harry collapsed into the warm, broad safety of his arms.

"Do you want me to stop?" asked Snape. He did not sound angry, not at all. Just…kind.

What _was_ this? Was this Snape's true nature that had been hiding all along? Or had Harry just been too blind to see it? He was sure it wasn't the latter, but the former was a distinct possibility. The truth was that Harry was fearful of becoming Snape's world, fearful of the rapid speed in which he was-God _forbid_-developing _feelings_ for someone who he had hated mere hours ago. He had meant everything he had said, more than anything he had spoken in his lifetime. All of Harry's emotions, both past and present, that ever had anything to do with Snape melded and clashed together in uncertainty and twisted relentlessly inside him, begging him to unlock the door of these new, true feelings that he was so in fear of until all Harry wanted was to lose himself in the pleasure of his senses.

Which he promptly did.

"No, Snape I—" Harry began.

"It's Severus, Mr. Potter," said Snape, softly and sardonically, nearly grinning in that way of his, not as though he was particularly enjoying himself or getting any amount of pleasure from smiling, but more to highlight the language of his eyes, dark and expressive, so that the grin was just something to help those deep waters swallow their victims and make them, however unwilling, immediately and irrevocably take pleasure in the expression.

Or find fear in. He had not lost his ways.

Snape was not anyone other than Snape. He was not, all of a sudden, Mr. Happy-Go-Lucky. The world tends to over-romanticize such things. If he was your neighbor and you came over to ask for a cup of sugar, he would still narrow his black eyes, respond with an offensive, supercilious, yet witty remark, and slam the door in your face. He would not light up the room with a smile and reply; "Well, golly gee, mister, just wait here one moment while I go get you that. Brown or white?" He was still Snape.

But Harry awoke in him feelings that had yet to feel in over a decade, and he felt like he was being cleansed of all the shame and guilt and failure that had so permeated his soul as the years sludged filth at him until the only way he recognized himself was through the duties and tasks he was assigned.

This young man whose skin brushed against his own was changing that. Snape felt a tentative security in this boy's embrace, like rediscovering the taste of your favorite food or drink you haven't consumed in years, after all you've survived on is bread and water. And whenever your jailer would give you something that resembled a treat, it would be as a wolf in sheep's clothing, the taste that of sawdust until the only thing you trust is yourself and your hatred for the world grows and grows and blacks out any light. But when you are finally set free and you realize, as the revived sweet taste fills your mouth, that perhaps, after everything you've gone through, it's all right to be happy. That perhaps, after all these years of monotony and pain, there is something, or someone, out there that you can finally feel safe with, that you can open up to. Perhaps he had found his.


	8. Culmination

**Culmination**

Such were Snape's thoughts as he gazed incessantly at those vibrant green eyes he could never get enough of.

Harry had not said anything since Snape's gentle reprimand. Snape ran the tips of his fingers along the boy's cheekbone, down his neck until his fingers rested against Harry's collarbone. Though the night was humid and the rain was warm, Harry was shivering slightly. Snape sighed.

"I simply…want to hear you say my name."

Harry stopped shivering. He looked into Snape's eyes, endless like the night above them, and was hit by a wave of something that could only be described as unencumbered passion and…love. But Harry wasn't thinking that, or so he told himself, when he leaned in so his chest was against Snape's and his lips hovered beside Snape's ear. He placed his hand on the back of Snape's neck, felt Snape arch his body into the touch, surprising Harry with the power he had over the other man. He grinded his skin softly against the Snape's, heard his inescapable groan at the touch as Harry bent forward and whispered breathily, hardly containing his own desire:

"Severus."

Snape's hand tightened on Harry's buttock and Harry moaned, pressing himself into the touch, no longer in the driver's seat. He gyrated his ass against Snape's hand, begging with his body for Snape to put his fingers inside, and it was all Snape could do not to come in that instant.

"You're a, hn, a virgin, no?" asked Snape, gritting his teeth savagely against the craving to drive Harry onto the earthen floor and push himself inside the young man until Harry's grunts and cries, attractive as hell, peaked and—

"Nnn, ah, yes. I-I am," said Harry, shakily as he grappled with the same problem that consumed Snape.

A minute later, Harry felt something cool and wet press against the inside of his ass, and then slip inside him. He threw his head back, arching his spine, not able to contain the yelp of sheer, overpowering pleasure that escaped him as Snape's fingers moved back and forth and he said; "This should help you get used to it. I—I'd rather not harm you, Harry."

After Snape had sufficiently lubricated the young flesh, he eased Harry's hips up, positioning the young man directly on top of himself. He looked the boy in the eye, pulled him closed and kissed him, long and sweet and hard all at once.

"Are you sure about this?"

Under the combination of that calm tone and those wonderful hands and the hot blood pulsing inside him Harry felt as though he might melt. He gulped a few breaths of precipitating air before saying:

"I've never wanted anything more in my life."

Snape pressed his mouth against Harry's one final time before he spread the young man's buttocks and slid himself inside him.

The pounding of the rain and the rustle of the wind and everything that Harry had ever known and felt and breathed coalesced into that one fine, pure point of sheer ecstasy and pain as Snape began, ever so slowly, thrusting his cock inside Harry.

"_Aaah_! Aah, oh, f—_God_," Harry cried, moving in tandem with Snape's gentle thrusts, his body hot and powerfully undone by the way Snape was clinging to him. The other man's hands softly gripped his ass, his thumbs resting on Harry's hips, as he moved back and forth inside him.

"Are-hah, you, ngh, all right?" Snape breathed. Good God, how this boy aroused him, consumed him.

Harry's face was a delicate mix of pain and pleasure. He wanted to scream and vomit and come all at the same time.

"It hurts so fucking _bad_—" he whimpered.

Snape stopped for a moment, reached for his wand. He pointed it at Harry, whispering something under his breath. The overwhelming pain and nausea Harry felt dissipated.

"Is that—?" began Snape.

Harry nodded.

Snape's breathing slowed and he sighed, content for a brief second to simply stare. He took a moment to study the boy's face, those wonderfully masculine yet androgynous features that made him so hopelessly alluring. So _beautiful_. Snape's finger ran along the curve of Harry's cheekbone, painting his face with the rain and the salt of the boy's tears. Harry bit his lip.

"Please…"

Snape sat up, held Harry in his arms, tracing down his back and then back up again. Harry ached himself at the touch, brought his head back down to rest on Snape's shoulder.

"Please don't stop."

Ah, such _words_ he spoke! Snape heard Harry swallow as he began again to move gently inside him. The rain still fell on their naked bodies as Snape began to move faster. Harry moaned and dug his fingers into Snape's skin, the pleasure rising and falling like the beat of a drum. He had never felt this ecstasy before; this throbbing heat, this open sensitivity. His breath caught for the hundredth time as Snape filled him to the hilt.

"_Unnh_," he cried as Snape's cock touched a spot within him that turned the world around him into a pulsing, orange mass.

Snape noticed the highlighted aspect of the boy's arch, the way his nails dug even further into Snape's skin. He thrush again and hit that same spot. Harry couldn't take it.

"I-hah, Severus I-"

"Harry," Snape breathed, muscles tensing as Harry's vulnerable opening closed tightly about him. There was a moment suspended, and then Harry came hard, spilling his seed over Snape's chest as the other man leaned in to catch a nipple in his mouth. A second later Harry was distantly aware of the twitching of the Snape's cock within him as he came powerfully inside the young man. Harry fell over, uncaring of the semen that stuck the skin of their stomachs together as he tried to recover. He sighed deeply, shudderingly, and felt a warm hand caress his spine.

His eyes closed contentedly.


End file.
